Ballerina toes stretch toward
feathers, white blossoms that kiss
starved necks. Embrace
each black swan that
glides gloss pages.
A tongue is a miracle,
lapping up salt rocks,
serving colour to dull
business skirts. Charlie
waits in a back drop suit,
drenched in wallflowers
while the Hunger Crew
takes its place as
hard flesh grain.
*See HUNGER MAGAZINE
Sunlight spills out over the sky
and I watch the women dance,
strings from Heaven attached to each limb,
red lips painted with French curls,
I love them so much.
I loathe them so much.
They lift off the ground with majestic beauty,
gliding from toe to toe.
They seem to sleep on clouds,
pretty ballerinas that Pas
around town.
In the library, they seat quiet children
who are stainless and educated from
high value,
they swim in holy water with
moulded figures sticking out and I drool
along with the men,
and I love them so much.
Oh! I loathe them so much.
They fall like pink snowflakes,
kissed with Latter Day sprinkles,
the daughters of God who walk on Earth
next to me, searching for my palms,
serving me with the grace that Sunday could bring
but I will not listen.
I cannot.
My ears have been cut from my head by
Van Gogh’s paint strokes,
Mozart is pounding his fingers against my
chest in C-Minor, and
all of the words that have ever been written
by limbless men
and lipless women
sing as a group of cellos,
rooted deep in my naval,
where I began.
I bend easy, like a willow, swaying in
every direction, never favoring
East over West. I am hungry for
all direction, feasting on the luxurious winds
that pick me up and carry me from the storms of
inexperience to the gentle breeze of wisdom.
Though, I snap as sharp as winter pea
skin, frost bitten by the breath of the season
when they try to take me.
They say I belong with them in the East, where
the sun rises just to shine its Gold on me.
They say I belong to the West and
the colours of their underground sunsets.
Some say I belong for them to share,
for them to grant my freedom,
and they do not understand that I belong
only to the wind.
Sleep with little weeping,
dream bitter sweetly,
drink your coffee with dignity and
don’t forget your pride.
Side with the blind sided,
tie down the unbridled,
drain out lying eye lids and
leave the world at fault.
So,your brain has been assaulted,
your body’s been crawled on,
it’s a massive load your hauling,
but you don’t know where you’re
going. To drop it or
to drag it,
burn it
or gag it.
I say,
season it with
changing seasons and
grow bigger than it.
From the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,
where productions
remain silent but still produce,
where every rehearsed act
plays on, as if
unrehearsed.
Nobody would know the difference unless
they were watching
from the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,
the place that the universe bends for,
dances for,
multiplies for.
Once, a painted woman sat upon
the tower,
supreme and hungry,
watching
different casts perform…
her muse!
She was born with a gift.
An Eye!
A Wandering Eye!
At her command, her left eye would jump
out of its socket
on hunt
as the hungry painted woman
wished.
The Eye knew not the exact
silage, but
there were markings,
specifics, that the Eye knew to watch for.
The painted woman waited,
high in the clouds,
imposing on conversation
between wind
and
weather….
waiting.
Soon, her Wandering Eye would
return
with her meal –
soldiers, fighters,
carpenters,
shaman,
each had a purpose.
The painted woman would accept her
prey, swallowing them completely
in to
herself,
writhing them in and out of consumption,
pulling them deep into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!
She touched
and kissed
and drooled on
each of their gifts
using each
as her very own until
she was
spent.
Then, she would take her lust-probing eye and
retire,
leaving nothing of
her pillage behind!!
A snake,
overflowing
with lasciviousness!
One day, the brushed lady
was brought a tender
slice of
musician, with sad,
blue diamonds sparkling so bright
that when she saw her reflection
in them,
her left gift, was
immediately calcified,
a vegetable!
Useless!
She barely noticed!
They stood together at the tip-top
of the towering fortress,
oblivious to
acts,
actors,
and
actresses.
All the muse she needed stood
beside her, with a box of suffering chocolates
and rust roses,
begging
her
for consumption! On his knees he
pleaded for
use!
Baffled by his strange request, she conformed to
habit.
The painted woman accepted her
prey, swallowing him completely
in,
writhing his body in and out of her consumption,
pulling him deep, deeper into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!
She touched his gifts,
gently kissed his gifts
caressed each gift as if it were her own
until
the bewitching young
musician was spent, sleeping inside her body.
This had never happened before.
She knew “withdraw”
not “succumb”.
How dare he retire without her!
Leaving her here,
alone,
on the tip-top of a towering
fortress without
her only friend,
her tool!
She panicked when the script
started
in the world below. Its silence
sounded different
somehow.
Heartsick.
At that moment, the lady,
standing at the tip-top of the towering fortress
flung herself
from the security of the towers’ height,
diving to join
the world below!
maggiemaeijustsaythis 